Remember
by RipredtheGnawer
Summary: Haymitch/Maysilee. A series of prompts written for English class. Will NOT be in chronological order.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Haymitch angst, written for English class. Will not be in chronological order.**

* * *

interminable

He won't stop walking. It's like there's a force driving him that only he can see, because there's certainly no visible, obvious reason to keep moving. We rest at night, but only when it's impossible to see any longer, and then we're off again at the crack of dawn.

I'm not going to ask what he's doing. Even if I do, I don't think he'll answer. When we were in the Capitol, he ignored everyone. The only times I actually heard him talk were at his interview and to yell, loudly, at our mentor that he'd do what he wanted. Truth be told, I'm afraid to speak up. He knows how to use his knife a lot better than I do mine.

But after we're attacked by carnivorous squirrels for the umpteenth time, we both are bleeding all over, and he just keeps _walking_, without a word, I have to say something. I plant my feet firmly on the ground and stand there. He disappears into the emerald-green forest, not appearing to notice.

It doesn't take long for him to realize I'm missing, though. He doesn't call out – he's much too infuriatingly clever for that – but I can hear him crashing through the underbrush. I've always been quieter than he is, even when neither of us is making a sound, or so I like to think. But I'm glad he's returning for me, because I'd never admit it to him but I'm terrified.

"What're you doing?" he hisses at me when he emerges from the trees. "C'mon, let's go," he says without waiting for an answer, pulling on my arm. I can tell by his expression that he's surprised when I don't budge.

"Only if you tell me where we're going." I wonder if I can burn him with my gaze.

His dark brows come together in frustration. "The arena can't go forever. It's got to end somewhere, right?"

"It does?" I can't see why this matters.

He lets out a huff of exasperation and wheels around, only to come pacing back to me with extreme annoyance in his eyes. "You don't understand, okay? Look, just – there might be something there that we can use."

"You think so, huh?" I make no attempt to keep the sarcasm from my tone.

"Ugh, Maysilee, you just don't get it!" he says, louder than is wise, and the knowledge of it registers on his face. "Now let's _go_." I don't resist when he drags me away. More walking.

But I'm still not convinced that there's a limit to this torturing place. Who are we to say that the Gamemakers can't construct something endless? I don't know what they're capable of, and neither does he.

Looks like I'm wrong, though, when we come to the chasm with no way across. There are no fallen logs to crawl over like past Games, not that I would ever do that, anyways. I don't care how safe the other side is.

He doesn't gloat, just stands peering over the edge as if the key to survival is written at the bottom. I come up beside him and check – it isn't.

"Well, it looks like this is it," I say.

He turns to me, flushed with excitement. "We can use this," he tells me, not seeming to hear.

"You can use it," I correct. "There's nothing more to find."

"Don't you understand?" he asks, and then rolls his eyes. "No. Of course you don't." He goes back to staring down at the canyon.

I stand there awkwardly, not wanting to stay but unsure of how to leave. The moment stretches out for eternity until, finally, I say, "Good luck, I guess." I turn and walk away, straining to hear a reply, but there is none. It's done.

And then the candy pink birds swarm around me and I'm screaming and screaming and _please make it stop_, except it doesn't, and I know that it will never be over.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Well, if _that_ wasn't a long time between updates.**

**Today was the last day of 8th grade for me; I was bawling my eyes out earlier on the bus. Seems like an appropriate day to post this?**

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plight

* * *

"I can't do this anymore."

_You have to. Everyone will die if you don't. He's just one boy. I love him too, you know that, but you have to think of the rest of the world. You're the Mockingjay._ "I know."

"All I can think of is—what he's going to do to Peeta—because I'm the Mockingjay!"

_Ignore it. This will distract you from the task at hand, from staying alive like I told you to. You're stronger than this; stop thinking about it._ "I know."

"Did you see? How weird he acted? What are they—doing to him? It's my fault!"

_No, no it isn't, it's mine. You had nothing to do with this. Maybe I should have let you both die before we had a chance to care about each other. It'd sure hurt less._

_ "It's my fault!"_


	3. Chapter 3

resilient

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He watches them on the television, because of course he's stuck here with that axe-murderer and the little girl while everyone else gets to go save the world. He sees how they stand strong in the streets, shattering windows with bullets. He can see the haunted look in her eyes as more and more of her companions fall. But she doesn't back down. She's a tough one, a survivor. And now the whole thing is almost over.

"Haymitch, can you watch Buttercup for a bit?" the little girl asks. "I'm needed in the medical area. It won't be long, I'm sure." The excitement and hope in her eyes is too much to refuse, even though he hates the cat.

"Sure, sweetheart. Hurry back." The cat eyes him, sizing him up. Probably wondering how many scratches he could get away with. "Not one," he tells the fleabag. "Not if you want your tail to stay attached."

The cat hisses. _Don't fight me. Not unless you want all ten fingers, _his glare seems to threaten.

They watch each other for what seems like forever. Eventually they both doze off, but the cat keeps one eye open. So does he, just so he won't wake up with a dead mouse on his face. They're both jerked back into consciousness as a huge explosion comes from the screen. There's smoke and blood and flames and all either of them can do is watch as the medics come rushing in.

That's when he remembers that the girl's not back yet, though she said it would be quick. He wishes he had some liquor to drown his dread in, but he doesn't, and there's nothing else to do but stare at the screen and hope he doesn't find her.

No such luck. There she is, blonde braid and un-tucked shirt, and the Mockingjay sees and pushes her way through the crowd, and then he thinks that they're both dead. He knows that at least one of them is. _Why are you doing this to me, sweetheart? I'm too old to be the last one left_.

But there's no answer, not even a whisper. It's as if the world's mocking him for thinking that she was strong enough to come back. That they both were.


	4. Chapter 4

ravage

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"Where's Peeta?" Her gray eyes bore into his gray ones, so alike yet she's got courage that he never had. He takes a deep breath, looks away. Opens his mouth to lie, but speaks the truth.

"He was picked up by the Capitol with Johanna and Enobaria."

He feels like he's going to vomit. Saying it aloud makes it worse, makes him realize the depth of betrayal she must feel, and he knows that she wouldn't believe him if he told her that he tried to save both of them. It was no use, true, and the hovercraft might very well break down any minute, but he did try. And nobody listened.

He's so lost in his regrets that it's truly a shock when her nails slice open his face. He's nearly forgotten what this type of pain feels like – the only hurt he's had to deal with for the past decade has been the emotional kind.

She screams, he screams, they both scream and then, when the biting words are flying out of his mouth, the back of his mind whispers that these marks on his skin, the claw marks – they're exactly what he deserves.

He's got to agree.


	5. Chapter 5

surreal

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This place is crazy. I've never seen anything so beautiful, so utterly divine, and I know that it's only messing with my brain. Yet it's nearly impossible to keep a clear head. It smells like sunshine, honey, and something else, something different from the rest.

I shake my head, trying to stay focused. It's enchanting, yes. I'd love to live here, yes. But if I don't watch out, it'll be where I die.

I can tell that only a few of the others are thinking like me. There's one of the girls from 4, both of the boys from 7, and Haymitch, of course. They've got calculating expressions and are getting ready to run toward the horn.

When the gong rings out, I dart forward and grab a blowgun with darts. Then I hesitate for only a second. Should I go further or turn around? Most of my opponents are still dazed – wait, no, they're coming!

My decision is made for me as a big, hulking boy from 2 heads my way. I turn tail and flee, not stopping until I feel on the verge of collapse. Looking around, I notice how the leaves are such an emerald color, just like the grass. There's a stream nearby, crystal clear, but I'm not thirsty yet. In any case, I don't have a water jug.

I'm not stupid, though. I walk along the bank, alert and scared. After a few minutes, I figure out how to set up the blowgun. Not thirty seconds afterwards, I hear a scuffling on the opposite bank and dodge into a clump of bushes with lollipop flowers.

The same enormous boy that charged me at the Cornucopia emerges and bends down to drink. I see he's got a pack of food. I could kill him now, and I nearly do, but then he starts rasping and clutching his throat. What's going on? His face is a bright red and is starting to turn blue. I feel sick just watching. And then, as quickly as it started, he falls twitching to the ground and goes still. His cannon fires. And now I know that this arena is definitely too good to be true.


	6. Chapter 6

assuage

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It's been a year since everything went wrong, so why is he still alive? Shouldn't he be dead now that everyone else is?

But that's not the way it works, of course, it isn't. Nobody would be so kind as to let him escape. The nightmare that has become his life will not release him.

And now it's the second time around. He sees their faces and wonders how he's going to survive this. They look like him. Both dark-haired and silver-eyed, both just as scared as he was. And he looks at them. They look at him. He remembers that they're both older than he is. And then, like the coward he is, he walks away. Nobody follows.

He makes his escape when the Games start. The boy is already gone – half-starved thing like him, it was stupid to expect anything else, and yet he hoped, and look where it's gotten him.

He's screaming inside, dying, because who knew it could hurt this much to lose someone you didn't even know? And that's what kills. Because it's so crazy, so confusing that he has to suffer like this, but maybe it's what he deserves after killing that girl last year.

"Hey, kid."

He turns and sees a boy a few years older than him, from District 11 by the look of him, watching his pity party. "Yeah?"

"That's your girl up there, eh?" He looks at the television and he's right, she's pinned down by one monster of a Career, looking terrified.

"So what?"

"So you owe it to 'em to at least _try_. Don't tell me you don't care."

"Well, what can I do about it?" He hates it when other people are right.

The boy looks at him with a calculating expression. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. "You can't do anything," he finally sighs. Offering the liquor bottle he's holding, he says, "Nothing but try to forget."

He takes the bottle and knocks back about half of it, barely suppressing a cough as the drink burns his throat. But he likes it.

"Keep it," the boy says, popping the top off of another bottle from the bar. "I'm Chaff," he adds.

"Haymitch." _But you knew that,_ he thinks. The latest Victor is always famous for a year. To get rid of the memories, he downs the rest of the drink and grabs a second. It's strange, he thinks, how nobody notices the very underage kid breaking the law, but then again, the people here have been hurt much worse than him. They probably couldn't care less.

And then, far away from his foggy state of half-consciousness, a cannon fires. He doesn't feel anything, for which he would be glad, if he weren't already dead.


	7. Chapter 7

apex

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"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."

It will all be over soon.

He knows it's true, that the end is very close. This is the climax of his agony. And yet it isn't, because there will be more pain next year, and that's a fact. There is never any deviation in the torture. But now there's a little hope that he won't have to bear it all. As guilty as it makes him feel, he's glad that there will be another person to ache for next year's tributes, even though it will only be one.

Except it's not over yet. It's not quite finished. They stare at each other on the screen, the boy and girl, and the boy speaks first.

_"If you think about it, it's not that surprising."_

The boy gets to his feet, slowly, painfully, and limps forward. He's proud of the girl, almost, as she nocks her bow with lighting-fast reflexes and aims it at the boy's heart. Almost. But then he realizes that the boy's knife is gone, splashing into the lake, and her olive skin darkens with shame.

_"No. Do it."_

He wants to yell at the boy, tell him how much this hurts to see them so close to winning and that this act of bravery and love just about tears his heart out. Apparently, the girl feels the same way, though a few days ago he'd swear she didn't love the boy at all.

_"I can't. I won't."_

They must hate him, or they wouldn't be doing this to him. Why can't one of them suck it up and kill the other already?

_"Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Cato."_

Curse that boy for being so convincing. But the girl's got a stubborn streak, too, and she won't back down.

_"Then you shoot me. You shoot me and go home and live with it!"_

He's back in his own arena, the candy-blue eyes and emerald trees, with sunset blood on his hands. Seeing her death all over again, how in essence he's responsible for it, and the way he's living with it. And he wishes he were her, so he could escape.

_"You know I can't. Fine, I'll go first anyway."_

He watches in horror as the boy throws down the girl's bow, ripping the bandage away from his leg, and a whole lot of sunset pours onto the ground. The girl's there then, kneeling and sticking the cloth back on, as if it could somehow undo the damage.

_"No, you can't kill yourself."_

This is tearing him in two, it really is, because he wants the Games to be over and yet he can't stand it for one of them to die after all of this. Twenty-three years of dead kids and he's finally found a pair that he wasn't willing to give up.

_"Katniss, it's what I want."_

That boy is too tragic for his own good. To kind, too good-hearted, but he should know by now that the best ones will always be the ones who die. Maybe not the first, but eventually it'll happen.

_"You're not leaving me here alone."_

She's speaking his thoughts. He sees now that she knows the winners are forever trapped where they were crowned, that they see it every time they blink, and that they spend the rest of their lives trying to think their way out. The boy pulls her to her feet.

_"Listen, we both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me. I've loved you ever since I was five, and all these years I've taken comfort in the fact that you're safe… If you die here, I don't want to know what my life would be like. Living without you doesn't seem possible, and Katniss, I swear it would kill me."_

It's a pretty speech, make no mistake, but he can see that the girl isn't listening. As the boy talks she's got her brow furrowed in concentration, and then she reaches for the pouch on her belt, the one that holds the berries. The boy sees this and grabs her wrist.

_"No, I won't let you."_

Listen to the boy, listen to the boy, listen to the boy. He wants to shake her, to make her see sense. They'd both hurt for a while but it would be easier for everyone if the boy died.

_"Trust me."_

The boy lets go, and in a sudden burst of clarity, he understands what will happen. It makes him sick. Maybe nobody will care if they both die – nobody that counts, that is. Because he cares, but nobody listens to him.

_"On the count of three?"_

They both have berries. They hold them tight. They kiss, gently, and he would cry if he hadn't shed all his tears at age fourteen.

_"On the count of three."_

The boy's voice is almost too quiet to hear.

_"Hold them out. I want everyone to see."_

So he's not entirely devoid of brains after all. Sure, he's great at playing the lovesick teen, but until this moment, he'd seemed lacking in the smarts department. This move, though, is worthy of dying.

_"One."_

If they die, he'll die, too. He's sure of it.

_"Two."_

There have been too many deaths to make it through a double loss again.

_"Three!"_

Too late. The berries are gone, they've eaten them, and then the trumpets sound.

He yells in triumph as they spit out the fruit, in ecstasy that this is all over, it's a happy ending, and he knows that there will never again be a climax quite like this one.

"Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you – the tributes of District Twelve!"


	8. Chapter 8

inexorable

* * *

She's screaming, screaming, screaming, and he knows he's only looking out for himself now, but he can't help it. He runs through the deadly paradise, away from the cliff and the delight of the force field at the bottom, following the sound.

Then he sees her. Uniform shredded, lying on the grass, bleeding sunset into the earth. Her candy-blue eyes implore him and, against his will, he comes closer.

"Maysilee." Unbidden, the name is choked from his heart.

She can't answer through the wounds in her throat and chest, and a rattling breath is the only reply.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

She blinks once, long and slow, and then he's crying just like her, and why is it like this? Isn't there another way?

"I don't want you to die," he says, but so quietly that he can't even hear himself.

She gives another rattle and releases a little more sunset, just enough for him to know that this _is_ the only way. And he can't stop what's happening any more than he can blow out a force field.

"Where are you going?" he asks. He so desperately wants to know, to be sure that she isn't just finding another arena. But she can't tell him.

Her answer is like a breath of wind, only lonelier. And then she's gone. He pries her hand from his, her blood dripping from his fingers. Walking away, he knows that just as her death was inevitable, so is his victory.

He's going to win. For her.


	9. Chapter 9

doleful

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This isn't what he'd expected.

In his imagination – what little of that that he possesses – his life as a Victor was happy, cheerful, and filled with food. There was always food. And let's not forget the money – enough to last twelve lifetimes.

He was only half-right.

There is money for his mother, his brother, and himself. There would be money for _her_, too, but she's not here to enjoy it.

There is food in their cupboards and on the table. He smells it as he walks in the door. His mother cooks all the time, being exempt from work, and she's a wonderful chef.

But he's hungry still. He can't eat what he's given. When he manages to choke down a few mouthfuls, it comes back up later.

He thought this would be a nice way to live. He would smile, laugh, and buy his brother presents every week. Maybe candies from the sweetshop. Now, though, that's like a horrible joke. He doesn't go into the sweetshop anymore. Her twin, what's-her-name, is her spitting image, but sadder. And her twin's eyes are the color of the candies, the mirror image of _hers_.

No, this isn't how he'd imagined the rest of his life.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Last one!**

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prostrate

* * *

He hurts _so much_, and all he can think is that he understands what _she_ felt. He must be dying now, too. But he keeps running or stumbling or maybe he's crawling. He can't stop. To stop would be to let _her_ down, and he can't do that while he's still alive.

He falls just before the cliff, where he knows that this is it; this is the end. He convulses, his body is falling out of itself, and why can't he just die already?

That's not the way it works, of course. He hears District 1's axe come flying back and kill its owner, and then the trumpets are too loud in his ears. He vaguely hears his name, and knows he's won, but that's minor compared to his pain.

The hovercraft's claw reaches down, because he's not going to climb the ladder himself, and then time seems to slow down. He's dying now, he's sure of it.

He thinks about _her_. He sees her now, because her eyes match the sky exactly. Both sugar-sweet and staring down at him.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

This time she answers. "Don't follow me. Don't come this way."

"Why not? It hurts, Maysilee, and I don't want this."

She blinks. Her eyelids are clouds. "It doesn't hurt forever." How can the sky be reproachful?

"I didn't want you to die," he reminds her, but there's no conviction. It's not that he _did_ want her gone, but rather that he's not sure why it matters anymore. She's already gone.

"Just remember." She's more sky than eyes now, and she's fading quickly.

"Remember what?"

"Remember."

"Remember?"

"Remember."

And she's gone, and then he's lying in a warm bed, in a plain room, and he can't be bothered to move. _She was right,_ he realizes. _It doesn't hurt forever_. He feels fine physically, but mentally, the raw grief is tearing him apart. It's as if his stomach is still sliced open.

He welcomes the feeling, because it means he remembers.

_I'll always remember._


End file.
